Sunday Morning
by Pathetic Krypton
Summary: Notifiably a slash fiction. Richie and Virgil spend a slow and comfortable morning relishing in what they are not accostomed to.


Sunday Morning

PG-13

A/N: I expect no sort of praise for what I believe to be my own personal satisfaction in crossing barriers I have previously had trouble with. My clock now reads 2:53 AM, and as the hard, cold, night wears on I have only this comfort of indulging myself in the life and warm, sweet, romance of what is none but a fictional character.

Otherwise, I say, I hope you enjoy my pointless bit of prose. Without purpose or true structure. I long for these mornings as I once had them in such a young age.

* * *

Virgil woke that morning to the slow, steady, rhythm of the rain streaking his bedroom window, to the roll of thunder and the slice of lightning through the dull sky. It made him feel at peace, to wake up to something so calm and gloomy.

He turned to the figure sleeping next to him, brushing some fine blond hair out of a perfectly pale face. Richie's breath was even, deep, and his expression conveyed utter relaxation. The moment Virgil's fingers brushed across his cheek, Richie moaned very discreetly in his sleep and moved closer to the heat they'd generated through the night between them. The arm that was pleasantly draped across Virgil's lap tightened its lax grip only slightly.

It was Sunday morning, Virgil realized, and he'd just grazed the sunrise, watching the sky lighten faintly to a bright gray color, the color it would most likely be for the rest of the day. He knew that Pops and Sharon would be getting up soon to go to church, and that they would be quiet in leaving, would let him be because they knew both of his secrets. He also realized that backpack had yet to sound any kind of alarm or beep to signify an attack anywhere. Virgil knew that the electronic could scan the police radio and pick out words like 'meta-human', and 'bang baby', and others. There must not be anything of too much importance happening.

Good, he thought, turning his attentions back to the blond boy on his bed. This was the other secret his dad and Sharon knew besides his super hero persona. This, here, nearly in his lap, was the secret that, when it was borne, he didn't want to keep. He was actually glad that Sharon caught them kissing so deeply and passionately that it would've been impossible to deny what was going on.

And, Virgil supposed, having his hand up the back of Richie's shirt, and his hips pressing firmly into the pale boy's own, wasn't any easier to write off.

Then she had him explain everything and a sort of tenderness overcame her for a moment, but then she confessed, with a superior smirk, that she knew all along. And then she made Virgil tell their Pops. To say the least, his father's look was priceless. He wasn't angry, but incredibly shocked, maybe scared because he'd always suspected something between the two teens but never knew how to approach Virgil about it or how to kill the idea.

Virgil could hear the faint stirrings of his sister outside his room. He caught the pause at his door, to see if she could strain to hear if they were awake, but then she quickly went back to her soft footsteps to the bathroom. Pops would head downstairs any moment now to start a pot of coffee.

But normally on Sunday morning, any minute now, backpack would warn them that there were goings-on in the city somewhere, and Virgil would have to wake his sleeping blond boyfriend and they would suit up and spend the day battling evil.

Today, though, backpack continued to remain quiet as if it were dead. Virgil had been beyond tempted to get up and poke it, to see if maybe its juice had run out or something.

The dark-skinned boy sighed in relief after a moment, scooting his body back down in position with Richie's, spooning against his body. Richie murmured softly, but didn't stir, and soon Virgil was asleep again, breathing evenly along with his partner.

He again woke to the rain, to the calm roll of thunder and the sharp crackle of lightning splitting open the sky. Looking at the clock this time told him that it was nearly nine—the house was empty, and backpack still had yet to signal them.

Richie was half-awake next to him, a goofy smile pasted on his lips as he lazily tugged on the blanket. The warm cloth slowly slipped from Virgil's body, completely cocooning the pale teen. Richie laughed softly, nudging up to Virgil, who was pulling on the blanket again, trying to cover his chilly body. Virgil managed to get a tiny bit of the blanket, pressing his body up against Richie's and causing the smaller teen to shiver from the chill to Virgil's skin.

He sighed, awake now, and gently kissed Virgil's cheek, his hands moving to run across his chest. The palms of his hands ran over Virgil's hard nipples, causing the dark teen to gasp, and wiggle both away and into the touch. He scooted even closer to Richie, moving his partner so that he was laying on top of Virgil. They smiled at one another and kissed, softly at first, but as the moments wore on so did their passion.

Things escalated from that point and by the time Sharon and Pops were home the two still weren't out of bed. And the alarm hadn't sounded yet, either.

It was a rare occasion for them, a sweet and slow Sunday morning.


End file.
